


Committal

by FandomN00b



Series: Solona Amell and the Rebel Wardens in the East [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Mages and Templars, former templars, funeral fic, it's really actually pretty ridiculous how much parental angst DA gives us to work with, mostly Fiona's POV, parental angst, soooooo much parental angst, this is right at the end of Asunder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:07:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29868192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomN00b/pseuds/FandomN00b
Summary: After sacrificing herself to allow her spirit of Faith to revive Evangeline after the fight with Lord-Seeker Lambert, Wynne's ashes are buried beneath an old oak tree at Andoral's Reach. After declaring their independence from the Chantry, the rebel mages and several of Wynne's former companions gather to take a moment to honor her memory, and Fiona finds an unexpected ally in the King of Ferelden.
Series: Solona Amell and the Rebel Wardens in the East [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1529891
Comments: 15
Kudos: 7





	Committal

A letter found on Knight-Commander Greagoir’s desk in the abandoned Circle at Kinloch Hold:

_20 Haring, 9:40_

_Greagoir,_

_She’s gone… sacrificed herself for one of yours, though she fought for our best interests until her dying breath. There will be a funeral of sorts at Andoral’s Reach once things have calmed down a bit and we’ve had a chance to regroup. Her son will be there, and I hope you will attend. He does not know, but perhaps now is as good a time as any to meet him? Surely, we can suspend our disagreements and uncertainties about what the future may hold in order to pay our respects to a good woman of faith._

_Be well,_

_Irving_

\---

“First Enchanter…” Fiona murmured as he entered the little clearing around the ancient oak tree just outside the ruins.

“ _Fiona_ … ” Irving looked even less pleased than usual to see her.

She smiled warmly in spite of his discomfort and his refusal to use her elected title, perhaps because of it -- there _was_ a hint of unmistakable smugness to her well-practiced softness now that she’d gotten the votes she needed from the Aequitarians. “We agreed to set aside our differences for the sake of our deceased colleague, yes?” 

“That takes some nerve, coming from _you_...” another old, bearded man growled from behind the First Enchanter. He wore plain clothes, not the robes of a mage, and Fiona could not sense any magic within him.

But it only took her a moment to place him, even though it had been decades since they’d last met. “Ah, yes, Greagoir. Of _course_ …” she nodded, her forced smile widening as she glanced between the two of them. “You look quite different without all the layers of enchanted steel between us. And I see the years since we saved you from Remille and the Architect have not been kind to _you_ , either.”

“Wynne… the others. This war you seem determined to start. This is all _your_ fault!” 

“I can hardly be held responsible for the Lord Seeker’s treachery. _He’s_ the one who ultimately disobeyed your blessed Divine.”

“If you’d have kept your mages in line… agreed to the Chantry’s _more_ -than-generous terms…” 

“ _Fuck the Chantry!_ ” Fiona hissed, all the measured distance gone now from her dark, fiery eyes. “We’ve made our decision. For independence. To _fight_!”

Greagoir reached for his sword, before remembering that he'd been forced to relinquish it upon being allowed to enter the ruins.

Fiona glared at him, daring him to try and strike her with his bare hands. She didn’t need her staff or anything else to defend herself.

“ _Both_ of you…” Irving stepped between them, putting his arms out to keep them apart. “This is not the time nor the place to declare war.”

Greagoir muttered something, then stomped off to pout somewhere while Irving looked torn between chasing after him or waiting for the ceremony to begin along with the others.

Just then, a sudden flurry of gasps and murmurings announced that the King of Ferelden had arrived, escorted by the Left Hand of the Divine. He looked quite sheepish about all the attention suddenly turning his way, and tried to act distracted by a couple of ravens that were trailing behind them, one smaller than the other, which swooped down and alighted upon his shoulder, while the other settled into the branches of the gnarled old tree under that was to serve as a final resting place for Wynne. Fiona could’ve sworn she saw the creature’s eyes flash golden in the setting sun as it cut through the last lingering swirls of snow that had fallen that afternoon, and she got the distinct feeling that this wasn’t merely a raven, but someone hired by the King or Leliana to keep watch or provide protection should something happen. Why should they trust the rebel mages, after all?

In addition to the pair of ravens, the hulking stone golem known as Shale stood further back, rumbling solemnly with a dwarf dressed in the cursed blue and silver of a Grey Warden. The dwarf had two infants strapped to him, one against his chest and the other on his back, and a dwarven woman and a slightly older child, presumably their mother and older sibling, fussing over each of them in turn as he bounced and swayed and jiggled them to keep them from making too much noise. They had shown up with an entire unit of junior Wardens from the East and an elven assassin bearing a distinctly Antivan accent, whose tattoos gave him away as a member of the notorious “House of Crows.” Fiona was surprised to see the assassin reach for one of the babies, offering to hold it and give its family a little break from minding at least one of their children, and even more surprised to see them eagerly agree to this as the elf shushed and jostled the stout little thing to great effect, as if this were a regular occurrence. These must have been what remained of the companions of the Hero of Ferelden, who was noticeably absent among them, here to pay their respects to a fallen companion and lend their support to each other. Between the King’s raven bodyguards, Sister Nightingale, the winged griffons adorning the Wardens’ armor, and the Crow, Andoral’s Reach had become some kind of open-air aviary in honor of the deceased senior enchanter. Which seemed fitting, since Wynne had dedicated so much of her life to carving out such a roomy and comfortable space for herself within the larger cage the Circle kept her in.

As the Left Hand left King Alistair’s side to speak with the others, Fiona couldn’t help but turn her attention back to him. She recognized him, of course. She had half-hoped that she’d never have the opportunity to -- that he’d grow up untouched by magic or Wardens or his royal bloodline and disappear into obscurity and reappear as a new, unrecognizable person with a better fate, all his own. But she immediately recognized the parts of him that were Maric: the uneasy crease between his eyes as he tried his best to be the King he was apparently born to be in spite of their best efforts to spare him this burden. And the same irresistibly charming and crooked smile that had won her over in the Deep Roads, and broken her heart the first time she’d seen it on her infant son’s face. But he had _her_ eyes. Her skin. Her ears. Her _teeth_ , even, and a sadness behind all his good-naturedness that she assumed could have only come from her.

People were clearly drawn to him -- drawn to follow, to protect, to serve -- just as people had been drawn to Maric’s natural charisma in spite of the pain it often brought to him and those he loved. Before she could look away and leave the King to the small crowd that was now threatening to swallow him up with their curiosity and pleas, he glanced over toward her for just long enough that she couldn’t pretend she hadn’t noticed. It felt to Fiona like a tiny cry for help. And she suddenly felt something deep and buried and long-thought-dead twist painfully inside her.

But he couldn’t have known how this small flicker of recognition would affect her. She was still a stranger to him, and would remain so. She needed to leave. Her heart was already racing, her breath caught somewhere between her mouth and her lungs, but her blessed feet, at least, obeyed her wishes and propelled her away from this, away from the crowd and the tree and the child she’d given up for his own good.

“Grand Enchanter!” she heard someone call out as she turned and headed back toward the ruins. “Fiona!” someone else tried to get her attention. But she pressed on through the field, past the old crumbling gates, refusing to look back until she’d made it to the outer walls of the ancient fortress. Only then, assuming she was out of sight of anyone, did she stop to catch her breath, braced against an old stone wall built long ago in the name of the old god of “unity,” the dragon of slaves, and toppled by Andraste’s armies. Fiona couldn’t help but laugh breathlessly at all the irony she found herself surrounded by in this place.

“Why aren’t _you_ out _there_?”

She turned around to see Greagoir peering curiously at her from his own hiding place among the ruins. 

“They’re just about to begin,” he muttered, gesturing back toward the tree. “Just waiting for her son, I imagine.”

“I’ve already paid my respects.”

“To a woman who disagreed with you all the way up to her death?” Greagoir raised an old, grey, unkempt eyebrow at her.

Fiona’s skin crawled with memories of being looked over and interrogated by slavers, noblemen, Templars, Senior Wardens, and Seekers, and she didn’t stop herself from sneering back at him this time. Without his sword or his armor or his lyrium, he had no power over her. No power over anyone here any longer, in fact.

“You don't have to tell _me_ , of course. But I can tell you’re running away from _something_.”

“And why are _you_ hiding here behind crumbling ruins? Too many mages who no longer recognize your authority, Knight-Commander?”

“Nah. Just afraid of ghosts the same as you, I suspect.”

“You have no _idea_ what haunts me.”

“Maybe not, but I know what guilt and cowardice look like. Maker _knows_ I’ve seen enough of -- ” He trailed off at the sound of another pair of footsteps making their way out of the ruins behind them, the crunch of gravel and loose stone slightly muted by the layer of fresh snow.

Fiona eyed him and shook her head, sinking back behind the wall she’d claimed, debating whether or not to try an invisibility spell and disappear altogether. But chances were pretty high that these were mages, and that kind of magic might give her away even more easily than simply staying put. Greagoir seemed equally keen to hide, and ducked himself behind his own wall as well.

“So… what will you do?” It was Rhys, Wynne’s son, the new leader of the Aequitarians who had earlier that day broken the tie between the Loyalists and the Libertarians and voted to fight for their independence from the Chantry.

He was with Evangeline, another supposedly _former_ Templar. “If it means I fight at your side, I will gladly die again and regret nothing,” she vowed.

“Then we’ll face the future together.”

They embraced, and then they kissed, and Fiona felt as if some invisible force was restraining her from intervening in this private moment between the two of them. Not that it was any business of hers, however short-sighted and doomed this little affair between them seemed. But she might have at least let them know they were not alone before they got too carried away.

“Come with me.” Evangeline took his hand and began to lead him out toward the old tree and the crowd gathered around it in Wynne’s honor.

Once they were out of earshot, Fiona murmured, “Idiots,” and she stood up, brushing snow and gravel from the bottom of her robes.

“Aye…” But Greagoir looked completely awestruck still as he watched them walk away.

“Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“You and Wynne…?”

Greagoir’s eyes remained fixed on the ceremony taking place in the field in front of them. “I loved her. I think she felt something for me, too, a long time ago. But it wasn’t like you think…”

“How do _you_ know what _I_ think?”

“And she never told me -- if she had… before they took him away… ”

Realization finally dawned on Fiona as she saw the way he looked at Rhys. This wasn’t just about Wynne, or mages in general. Or even the impending war.

“Things would’ve been _different_ ,” he said. There was anger mixed in with his grief and regret -- all of which Fiona was reluctant to make any effort to understand. The last thing she needed was to suddenly find some common ground with the enemy.

They remained silent throughout the rest of the ceremony, and as Leliana’s song, an ancient elven tune, echoed and bounced off the crumbling walls around them, carried back through the ruins by the breeze in a clear, but haunting susurration.

“Does _he_ know?” Fiona finally asked, in barely a whisper, once the song had ended and people had begun murmuring their own condolences to each other and to Rhys.

“No. Well… not that I am aware of.”

“Will you tell him?”

“Irving thinks I should. But to what end? I can only imagine it will bring him even more grief to know that his father is… _was_ a member of the Order which now wages war upon his very existence.”

“You will not rejoin your fellow Templars?”

“The Lord Seeker’s men have not been _fellows_ of mine for some time.”

“I see… ”

Greagoir finally turned to face her. “ _Do_ you, _Grand_ Enchanter? Do you _see_ what your rebellion will do to all the good men and women who’ve spent their whole lives trying their damndest to work for a scrap of humanity within this broken system? Do you see how your ultimatums have forced all of us to take sides in a war that many of us have no interest or energy left to fight…?”

“I _see_ that you might finally have an opportunity to meet your son.” She nodded back toward the edge of the crowd, where Irving had pulled Rhys aside into a conciliatory embrace. 

Greagoir watched in terror as Irving then turned and nodded toward him. His whole body tensed, ready to flee, and even Fiona held her breath when they started walking their way. But perhaps the same unnatural force she had felt earlier held him there now, forcing him to face his son. Rhys _was_ known to have a special connection with spirits. Lambert had claimed it made him more susceptible to possession, of course. But Fiona knew better, that spirits were just as easily influenced by the wishes and whims of those they came into contact with.

“Be brave, Ser Knight,” Fiona whispered, before nodding her departing respects to all three of them. Who or whatever had arranged this meeting seemed uninterested in keeping _her_ there to witness it up close.

She had had enough of the crowds. Enough of celebrity appearances distracting everyone from the battles ahead. Enough delays in preparing their defenses. She had respected Wynne as a mage, felt the loss of such a skilled and powerful potential ally in the dark days ahead of them, even mourned for her on a personal level, but she would not miss her apologist stance on the Chantry and its promises of reforming the Circles. And she would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit that she felt a bit of resentment that, even in her death, Wynne had managed to interfere with the rebellion -- bringing Wardens and royalty and _former_ Templars if Greagoir was to be taken at his word and any other number of potential agents of the Chantry or the Divine into their midsts while the Lord Seeker mustered his own troops against them in the south. 

Leliana was another matter entirely. Wynne may have had differing opinions and ideas about the way forward for mages, but Fiona didn’t trust Sister Nightingale any further than she could throw her, and Fiona was not known for her physical strength, even if she could summon a fairly powerful Veilstrike. So when the Left Hand intercepted her departure, suddenly appearing out of the shadows of the old ruins like some kind of wraith, it took all of her self-control not to try and shove her way through _her_ , too.

“Grand Enchanter, a word?” The lilting overly-polite tone did little to hide the impatience of one of the most dangerous women Fiona had ever met.

Fiona shook her head. “We have much to do in preparation for Lambert’s attack.” She didn’t even try to mask _her_ irritation.

“That is what I wish to speak to you about.”

“Yes? What might you suggest on behalf of the Divine?” She didn’t have time to play whatever game the bard was playing. “That we simply _pray_ for some kind of miracle? That we pledge ourselves in service to Justinia now that her own Lord Seeker disavows her and she will in turn shield us with tales of the Maker’s bountiful bosom? Or of Andraste’s perfectly blessed ass, perhaps?”

Leliana stifled a laugh. It was not the reaction Fiona had been expecting, and it gave her enough of a pause to allow Leliana to ask, “Have you spoken with the King of Ferelden yet? He is _also_ sympathetic to our cause. And unlike the Divine, he has an army that remains loyal to him.”

“I hardly think _we_ share the same cause, Sister.”

“This may be true, but it seems there _are_ some meaningful overlaps, yes?”

“I will not pledge our subservience to a new master after we have only just declared our freedom from the old ones.”

“I like to think that I know the King well enough to know that _he_ has no interest in your subservience.”

Fiona’s eyes softened ever so slightly at that. And she had a sinking feeling Leliana noticed, judging by the victorious gleam she wore upon her own masterfully-managed countenance.

“What _are_ his interests, then?” Fiona sighed.

“He has offered Redcliffe as a place of asylum. There is a small community of mages there already, who chose to leave Kinloch Hold when they opened up the Circle in Ferelden.”

Fiona glanced back over to Greagoir. He was muttering something to Rhys, while Irving nodded along in somber acknowledgment.

“The Arl is willing to accommodate more of you and to offer some protection alongside the Royal Guard should the Lord Seeker attempt an attack, unsanctioned by the Divine,” Leliana continued.

“And the terms of this arrangement?”

“You should speak with King Alistair, I think. But he would probably just ask that you not make too big a mess of his childhood home. Mages from the Circle helped to save it during the Blight, and it’d be a pity to let all the goodwill that still remains there go to waste, don’t you think?”

Fiona felt her chest tighten. In her peripheral vision, she could see Rhys grasping Greagoir’s arm, and Greagoir leaning forward, tentatively at first, until they were both finally embracing one another.

Her eyes flashed back to Leliana, trying to mask the sudden lurch of mixed emotions she was experiencing as this scene unfolded nearby. People were depending on her to lead the rebellion. There was no time to dwell on whatever this was -- regret or jealousy or maybe even some tiny glimpse of misguided hope nudging at an old scarred-over piece of her heart. “If we are to relocate, we must do so quickly and quietly, before Lambert can track us down and attack us along the way when we are most vulnerable.”

“Of course.” Leliana nodded. “Arrangements can be made tonight.”

“Then I will speak with the King…”

“Excellent. I will introduce you at once!”

“I don’t think a formal introduction will be necessary,” Fiona muttered.

“As you wish…”

Leliana nodded back to where the King seemed to be catching up with the Crow, the dwarven Warden, and Shale, who still seemed a little preoccupied with the King’s raven guardians, eyeing them both warily as they circled overhead, riding the strange, swirling gusts of snow that were being kicked up by the shifting winds. At Leliana’s signal, he handed one of the dwarf babies back to its father and began to walk toward her.

“Grand Enchanter,” Alistair nodded deferentially, and Leliana left to rejoin their companions, taking her own turn at baby-holding.

“Your _Highness_ …”

“Sorry.” He grimaced. “That still feels a bit weird to hear. You’d think after a decade I’d be used to it, but I usually leave most of the title-worthy diplomacy to the Queen...”

Fiona stared blankly at him. She could think of nothing to say to fill the painfully awkward silence that trailed along after this endearingly un _Kingly_ confession.

“Anyway…” he cleared his throat. “Leliana has informed you of our offer of asylum in Redcliffe?”

“Yes…” She eyed him warily. “Though I would first like to hear what you aim to get out of this arrangement.”

“To _get_?”

“What are your terms for _us_?”

“Oh, well… I just, uh... “ He smiled weakly back at her as she waited patiently for him to collect his thoughts. “Things have been going pretty well with the dissolution of the Circle in Ferelden. So Leliana -- I mean, the Left Hand of the Divine -- she suggested we sort of lead the way, so to speak.”

Without saying anything, Fiona looked thoroughly unconvinced.

“Look, I was never a fan of the Circles as they were, not even when I was training to be a Templar. And I guess I -- _we_ , Anora, the Queen and I, it’s the least we can do. As a sort of thank you.”

“A thank you?”

“Well, the Hero of Ferelden was a mage, and Wynne, of course.” He nodded back toward the tree. “And the other mages from the Circle who helped us in Redcliffe…”

“So you are thanking a handful of mages, one of which is dead, and another whose whereabouts are unknown, by offering to host _all_ the rebel mages across southern Thedas?”

“Well, perhaps not _all_ … but certainly, there’s room for everyone in Redcliffe who is here now?”

“I see. And where should the rest of them go? When _their_ Circles are ‘dissolved’ or they choose to overthrow them?”

“Perhaps others will step up and offer refuge, following our lead,” he suggested, much more confidently than anything he’d said up to this point. As if startled by his own conviction, he added, “Well, that’s the idea, anyway…”

“I see…”

“We simply wish to help.” Alistair offered her his hand. “You have my word.”

“I have had many people’s _words_.” She eyed his outstretched hand skeptically.

“Well, I left my sword at home. But you can have that, too.” He laughed. “Maker knows _I_ certainly haven’t needed it much these past few years.”

“And what use would _I_ have for a sword?” Fiona winked, but the glimpse of mirth vanished almost instantly. “We would have to depart from here immediately.”

“Yes. Agreed! How do you feel about the Deep Roads? Oghren and the other Wardens here have offered to serve as our guides should we need their assistance.”

She frowned. “Perhaps _some_ of us could travel below the surface…”

“Or my soldiers are waiting just east of here, and they could escort your people off the main roads to Cumberland? We have ships waiting there, as well, that can take us across the Waking Sea to Jader."

Fiona didn’t look any more excited about this proposal, either. What would her people think of being marched across the countryside by armed soldiers and packed into the bowels of ships like chattel just after she'd convinced them to fight for their freedom?

" _Or_ … I can send word for them to go on ahead of us and secure the route if their presence is not welcome?”

“Perhaps a few small, staggered patrols? We don’t want to attract too much attention. We can split up and travel in smaller groups both above and below the surface and hope that by the time the Lord-Seeker notices, we are far enough away from here that he will need to regroup and reconsider his strategy.”

“Of course! What’s a few hundred mages pouring out of some old ruins in Tevinter?” Alistair laughed. The sound of it, along with all the nervous warmth in his familiar features… Fiona wasn’t sure how much more of this she could bear. But she also couldn’t bring herself to end this negotiation, if it could even be called that. The King seemed more than willing to accommodate them, with limited strings attached. If it had been anyone else, she’d have found it all quite suspicious. Perhaps it was her own weakness in judgment, but she couldn’t find any compelling reason _not_ to take him up on this offer.

Thankfully, one of the ravens that had accompanied the King, the larger one with the golden eyes, glided down onto the wall nearest them and let out an impatient squawk. At least the King’s presumed bodyguard understood the urgency of their situation. 

Fiona nodded knowingly toward the creature. “I’m sure you are aware that we have ways of being less conspicuous.” 

Alistair glanced up at the bird, and then back at Fiona with a smirk. “So long as you’re not all going to be swooping and pecking the whole time… ”

“I will let my people know that the King is not a fan of swooping.” She smiled.

“Thank you!” He glared back up at the raven, which was now preening itself disinterestedly. “Then I suppose you should consider _that_ one of my terms.”

Fiona tried to steel herself against the fondness creeping further into her face as she finally reached, trembling a little, for his outstretched hand. “Then on behalf of the mages, in open rebellion against the Circles and the Templar Order, I accept your offer of asylum."

**Author's Note:**

> Morrigan and Kieran are there if you squint. Cole might also be there...helping. But Fiona *is* pretty spirit-resistant (stubborn)... it's served her well in the past, ok?!
> 
> Oh! Also...Rhys and Evangeline's little conversation comes straight out of Chapter 22 of _Dragon Age: Asunder_ by David Gaider!


End file.
